The Night of the Spies
by KayValo87
Summary: Why are there so many elaborate death-traps for James West and almost none for Artemus Gordon?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Everybody!**

So, I have not been writing in a while, which might explain the _massive_ depression that I've found myself in of late. (Monday was the worst, but I have only had one breakdown since then.) Anyway, I figured I better write something to bring my mood up but couldn't think of anything until this morning:

 _Why do so many of the bad guys overlook Artie?_

Seriously though, even _Loveless_ doesn't seem to know what to do with him! This thought spawned the plot bunny that brought you what you are about to read. I should note that **this is strictly a peek at what the villains are thinking/planning and neither of the boys will actually appear in this story.**

This story is dedicated to Tripidydoodah, The Wild Whovian, and Andamogirl for being my biggest supporters in this fandom. (I hope you like it.)

I big thanks to my beta, 1monster2, for taking a break from homework to help me get this ready.

 **DISCLAIMER:** While everyone seen in this story is an original character, the objects of their discussion remain the property of their own creators.

* * *

Norman Standish stepped from his carriage and looked with disdain on the ramshackle pub in front of him, longing for the comforts of his home office. The business may have a reputation for discretion, but that was the only thing to recommend it. Windows so dirty the light barely shown through, half a sign hanging from a rusty chain, and a selection of patrons too drunk to notice the water in their beer. This meeting could not end soon enough.

Moving through the cramped tables and questionable cliental, Standish made his way to the windowless storeroom in the back. As requested, the usual crates had been cleared to make room for a large round table with six chairs. A single lantern sat in the middle, the light not quite reaching the corners of the room but more than enough to illuminate the five men who were already seated. Taking the remaining place, he nodded to each of them in turn.

Phillip Carson: his right hand, who had served him admirable since the war. Tom Harker: his top enforcer who had broken more men than Standish could count. Elliot Garrison: the best gun hand dirty money could buy. Simon Greggs: as good at spying as he was at stealing. Tony Wright: new to their group, but very promising. Together they were the most dangerous group of cutthroats this side of the Mississippi, the start of an army that would one day rule the territory. But first, they had to deal with the matter at hand.

"Gentlemen," Standish greeted, folding his hands on the table. "I trust you were all successful in your assignments?"

"We'd never let ya down, Mr. Standish," Greggs answered for the others, a wicked smile showing off his gold tooth. "We got what ya asked for."

"Excellent," the boss praised. "We will start with James West."

The men nodded, each pulling several sheets of paper out of his jacket. Standish would have to remind them about the use of files and proper paperwork, but that could wait for another time. Starting with Carson, he asked for the first report.

"I saw West in Cherokee. He's a tall, good looking guy with a smooth tongue."

The others nodded and murmured in agreement. Standish asked for the sketch he requested and had to agree with their assessment. However, tall and good looking were hardly a weakness. If he wanted to beat the agent, he would need more.

"Do you have anything to add, Harker?"

"The man fights like the devil!"

More murmurs of agreement as Harker relayed a story of how West had beaten four men in the street, single-handed. This was the opposite of a weakness, but still very important information to have. They would have to keep this skill in mind when they set their trap.

"Greggs, what have you discovered?"

"Well, West sure has a way with women."

Louder murmurs of agreement, along with several examples from each of his spies. Standish was pleased to hear it, as this was something that they could most definitely use against the agent. He already knew of a few women that, for the right price, would be happy to play the role of Delilah. But he was getting ahead of himself, there was still two more reports to hear.

"Wright, Garrison, what were you able to find about Mr. West?"

"The man is a magician," the former stated. "He can break through ropes, locks, even walls!"

"It's true," the latter nodded, thumping his hand on the table. "I saw him rise right off the ground and straight to the second-floor window!"

The murmurs were more reluctant as the other men confirmed their stories. This was perhaps the most distressing piece of information, but knowing about it ahead of time might give them the advantage. Standish could always make sure his trap kills quickly, not giving the agent a chance to escape. Collecting the written reports and remaining sketches of Mr. West, he continued the meeting with the second matter of business.

"All right, Carson. What can you tell me about Artemus Gordon?"

"Gordon's not going to be a problem," his associate said confidently. "The man must be at least sixty, shaggy grey hair and beard, can't stand up straight; I surprised the Secret Service even lets him out of the office!"

This was good news. If Mr. Gordon was nothing but an old man, it would be easy to get him out of the way. Though, it was unlikely he was completely helpless with his record being what it was–

"What are you talking about?" Harker scoffed. "Gordon wasn't sixty, I doubt he was even fifty! And his hair wasn't grey, it was brown, with long mutton chops connecting to his mustache–"

"He didn't have mutton chops," Greggs interrupted. "Just glasses and a thick black mustache."

"His mustache was thin," Garrison insisted, "and his hair was all slicked back under his derby."

"I didn't know Southerners wore derbies," Wright commented.

"He wasn't Southern, he was British," Greggs corrected.

"No, he was a New Yorker," Garrison asserted.

"Texan," Carson stated firmly. "I heard enough of them to know."

"I thought he was more Georgian," Wright said, sounding unsure, "and I could have sworn he was blond."

"Blond!" the others exclaimed, fueling the debate.

Standish listened to them fight about who Mr. Gordon was for a few minutes before demanding to see the sketches they each had made. Sure enough, they had all seen a different man, from an old Texan to a young New Yorker, and each swore that they had encountered the real Artemus Gordon. But how could that be? As the argument resumed, Standish knew there was only one thing to do.

"Let us forget about Gordon and go back to West. You say he has a weakness for women …"

* * *

So, what do you think of my theory?

 _No one can plan for Artemus because you never know what he will be when he shows up._

I look forward to your feedback. (Seriously, any comments would make my week.)


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again.

I had not actually planned to write a second chapter on this, but got a few requests to do so. (I do actually listen to comments and suggestions.)

This chapter is dedicated to Agent Sandra Cartrip who first gave me the idea of expanding on the story.

A big thanks to today's beta, Dlldarkwolf, for going over the chapter during her lunch break.

 **NOTE: This part DOES have the boys in it.**

Enjoy ...

* * *

Jim looked over the remnants of his jacket, wishing they still had Tennyson aboard the train. Of course, the Englishman would likely throw a fit at sight of the tears, much less the scorch marks. At least Standish had the creativity to use both blades and fire to try and kill him. It was a good attempt, almost too good, but as always fell short in the end. Luckily the agent had someone to watch his back – especially in the form of metal solvent.

"James, my boy, you cut it a little close this time."

"Did you have to use the word 'cut?'" Jim asked his partner, holding up the ruined garment.

"At least it wasn't your good one."

This was true, but it didn't make him feel much better. That trap had been tailor made for him, which showed that Standish had done research. Those blades came far too close for comfort, and that was not counting the fire. Speaking of which …

"Hey, Artie, do you think you can come up with something to suppress flames?"

"Someone already did; they're called fire extinguishers."

"Can they fit in a pocket?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Jim nodded, looking up when the door opened. First came a couple of marshals, followed by a line of Standish's men – the tyrant himself had not lived long enough to make it to the prison wagon. Five men had been caught, all wanted in their own right for everything from war crimes to robbery and murder. The best any of them could hope for was to spend the next decade or two in the territorial prison, assuming they didn't get the rope. As they filed past one broke away from the line and lunged toward the agents. Jim braced himself, but the young man did not attack.

"Please, Mr. West," the man practically begged. "You can lock me up for the rest of my life if you answer one question … _who is Artemus Gordon_?"

Jim was so surprised by the question – as well as the intensity with which it was asked – that he was stunned into silence. Who was Artie? They had just spent the last twenty minutes fighting Artie! He glanced at his partner, but he didn't seem to know what to say either. Of course, with them getting locked up, it might not hurt to answer. Then again, that all depended on the reason they had for asking.

"Just tell me this," the man said after a moment of silence, "is he a blond southerner?"

"Now don't you start, Wright," growled another from the door of the prison wagon.

"I have to know, Carson!"

"He's a sixty-year-old Texan, and _that_ is all you need to know!"

"He's not!" another shouted. "He's British!"

"A New Yorker with a thin mustache!"

"Muttonchops!"

The five men continued their argument and Jim had a hard time keeping a straight face. That was why they didn't know his partner; none of them had seen the real him until tonight. Come to think of it, he hadn't called Artie by his name in their presence either. How many people had they arrested that thought he was working with a southerner or Texan? There are probably those out there that think the Secret Service employs Italians and Mexicans as well.

 _How many of their enemies actually know who Artemus Gordon really is?_

Jim glanced over at the object of their debate, but he had removed himself to the far side of the prison wagon. His back was turned, but the shaking of his shoulders was evident. Well, if his partner wasn't going to come forward, who was he to out him? Besides, in the long run, it was probably better this way.

"Gentlemen," Jim called out, stopping the argument. "If you haven't been able to figure it out yet, there is no reason to tell you."

The protests and pleas continued as the marshals ushered the men into the wagon and pulled away. Left alone in front of Standish's fortress, Jim turned to his partner. Artie was wiping his eyes, still chuckling to himself.

"Artemus, you sure have an interesting effect on people," he commented, clapping his friend on the back. "Shall we?"

Artie nodded, leading the way to the horses. It was good to end a case on a high note for a change, even if they still had paperwork to do. As they pulled themselves into their saddles, he called out something Jim couldn't quite hear.

"What was that?"

"Two months," Artie repeated. "That's how long they were watching us."

"How do you figure?"

"Last time I was a Texan was in Cheyanne, and since then I've been Frank Daley from New York, Beau Gunderson from Georgia, and William Colfax from Oxford."

"Ah, yes," Jim nodded, remembering those cases. "When did you have muttonchops?"

"Simon Collins, from that case near Denver."

"Right, between Frank Daley and Beau Gunderson."

"Exactly. Hey, we better leave this part out of our report."

"Why?"

"Just think how Richmond will react we he realizes we didn't spot a tail for _two months_."

Artie spurred his horse down the road and Jim followed suit. His friend did have a point; they should have known better. They would have to be more careful in the future. No need for their enemies to learn everything about them, they might actually get smarter in their traps.

* * *

What do you think?

I will likely not expand this any farther, but I am open to any comments/suggestions/ideas that might inspire another one.


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